


Wanted

by Wrathofscribbles



Series: Shipping words [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 05:45:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17197649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: "Ineeded you.  You're all I've ever wanted, all I'll ever want, in this world and the next.  But you went someplace I couldn't follow, Noct."





	Wanted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ninemoons42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/gifts).



> **Big bold reminder that Final Fantasy XV and all of its content is property of Square Enix.** I just like to play in the sandpit they've created for the fans.

He has time to think while Prompto sleeps.  So much time on his hands now to do with as he pleases when just seven hours ago... there wasn't enough, not even for an adequate goodbye.  He fully expected to die on the throne, didn't even  _know_ about Ignis's deal with his ancestors until they'd already cleaved his soul wide open and used it as a bridge to vanquish Ardyn's.  Ten years entombed in Crystal with the knowledge he  _had_ to die, and then he didn't.  Just like that.  He doesn't know what to do with  _himself_ because of it, in a world that's moved on and left him behind.  There's no ticking clock counting down the minutes now, just his own racing heartbeat and he has to wonder...

What about Prompto?  Has he left Noctis behind, too?

* * *

Prompto comes awake at once with one deep inhale, eyes shifting beneath their lids, not at all like the stretching, cracking, groaning mess he used to be and Noctis wonders when this change happened.  When and  _why_.  Age?  Necessity?  Daemon attacks on the rise?

"Mornin'," he says and at least his sleepy grumble is the same, eyes blinking open and squinting against the dull light of the room even with the curtains closed to the world's second sunrise in a decade.  "What time's it?"

"A little after six."

A yawn.  "And you're  _awake?_ Who are you and what'd you do with Noctis?"

"Did pretty much nothing  _but_ sleep for ten years, Prom.  It's a bit overrated," a casual reply to hide the weight of his weariness, all  _mental_ and unshakable and heavy as fuck to lug around.  Prompto stills in the process of rubbing at his eyes, one solitary iris more violet than blue peering through the curl of his fingers to regard Noctis in silence and the scrutiny, not at all what he remembers Prompto for, makes him squirm in his own skin.

"You couldn't even get up and walk around?"

"Nope."

"... Holy shit, Noct.  Seriously?!"

"Seriously."

"Wow... makes me wish the Astrals could bleed.  They'd make nice target practice."

"They, uh.  They do.  Too much hassle to get them to that point, though."  And just as he's said the words he wants to yank them back and eat them, knows Prompto  _takes note_ of them, ever the sharpshooter - with an eye for advantages and weaknesses to exploit.

But Prompto doesn't comment on it, throws himself out of bed with all the exuberance of his ten year junior self, tossing a "want some breakfast?" over a too-pale shoulder.

* * *

They wind up on the worn down sofa in the main living area, separated from the kitchenette with beaded curtains Prompto has hanging from the ceiling.  Once upon a time Noctis would have protested a fruit salad for breakfast -  _marginally_ acceptable compared to vegetables - but there's an odd hollowness in his belly like his body instinctively knows he hasn't eaten in a decade but something overrides it, makes him long for something, anything, other than cereal "that might as well be cardboard for all the taste to it".  Maybe it's the Astrals' magic, as foreign to him as the scars dotted along the bare legs across his lap, supporting the plate he picks clean if only to settle his stomach.

Scars that are new to him but old to Prompto's skin, faded for all that they're still raised and prominent and he cautiously runs his hand over them to learn their texture and the map they make of the body he once knew better than his own.  And there, something else resistant to the flow of time, the flex of toes and squeak of protest as Prompto restrains himself from kicking out at such a soft touch, ticklish.

"How did you get these?"

"Uh... supply runs, mostly, I think?  Except that ferny stuff.   _That_ was from a Scourge-ified coeurl.  Really nasty, those were, and I thought they couldn't  _get_ any meaner back when we first fought them!"

"And you didn't use curatives."  Statement, not a question, with the proof beneath his fingertips.

"Well, no.  We thought it best to keep them for emergencies only.  And it's just as well we did, or even Ignis's bargain would have fallen flat!"

There's the lead weight again, a cold pit in his chest gaping and bleeding ever since that first headline.  Guilt.  Denial.  Despair.

_I'm not worth all this pain._

A foot planted square on his shoulder, the lightest of shoves and Prompto's smiling at him when he looks, though the curve of it is raw and unguarded and brittle around the edges.  "I recognise that look - don't you start brooding again."

"But I -" skin and heat, a palm over his mouth, plate set aside in favour of Prompto straddling his legs and sticking both knees firmly into the sofa cushions, caging Noctis in, his frown more pronounced and lined with the age behind it.

"Don't.  We needed you back, Noct, and we were willing to storm the gates of Valhalla itself to get you, if that's what it took."  A kiss, soft and bittersweet and trembling, fragile.  " _I_ needed you.  You're all I've ever wanted, all I'll ever want, in this world and the next.  But you went someplace I couldn't follow, Noct.  If every wound is the price I had to pay to get you back then I'd pay it again and gladly, as many times as it took.  I love you Noctis."

"Prompto -"

"And if you  _ever_ go on a suicide mission again, I'll kill you myself, smartass."

His heart picks up double time, loud and pounding and so fast it should surely hurt and he can't breathe for it, can't speak for it, but that's okay because his hands settle on Prompto's waist and Prompto's go behind his neck and they're  _almost_ as close as they can possibly be and the contact is something he's missed and longed for and... here, now, in each other's arms -

He's finally  _home_.

"I love you, too."


End file.
